


This is My Home (Watch Your Step Since You’ve Come Around)

by IcyPanther



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: BAMF Coran (Voltron), Blade of Marmora Keith (Voltron), Coran (Voltron)-centric, Gen, Haunted Castle, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) Whump, Lance (Voltron) Whump, Minor Character Death, Protective Coran (Voltron), Protective Lance (Voltron), Sort Of, some are a bit violent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 06:38:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18255797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyPanther/pseuds/IcyPanther
Summary: “All right, Coran,” he gave himself a pep talk. “The princess and the Paladins are in danger. You are their only hope.” Coran paled in the face of his words. Oh Alaraan. He was their only hope. Well then. He straightened. That was that and that meant there was only one possible outcome. He was going to save his team. / The castle is invaded and the Paladins rounded up. Coran though is overlooked and he’s going to take full advantage of it. This is his home and those aliens are going to regret ever stepping foot in it.





	This is My Home (Watch Your Step Since You’ve Come Around)

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeline notes:** Set in later season four
> 
>  **Warning notes:** Graphic violence has been tagged although I don’t think it’s terribly graphic… erring on the side of caution though as mentions of torture. Minor character deaths and in some violent ways as well. See that BAMF Coran tag? Yeah :D
> 
>  **Other notes:** The title is both a little homage and an inside joke to me. I’ll explain it in the author’s notes at the end but if you get it, all the cookies for you ♥

Coran hummed beneath his breath even though it was inaudible over the sound the pipes were making down in the boiler room, which was where he’d been for the past several vargas attempting to find the cause of why the kitchen sink kept spouting hot water intermittently. It hadn’t been a high priority but Number Five had burnt her hand very painfully just that morning and Coran had put it at the top of his repair list.

There was always something needing repaired these days but, he patted a gloved hand fondly against one of the large pipes, he would always be happy to do so. It reminded him of simpler times, of watching Grandpappy work and animatedly chatter about how amazing the castle-ship would be.

It certainly was. Even after ten thousand years of sitting and collecting dust the castle was a pinnacle of technology that had aged like a beautiful bottle of bullarum. Sure, it had its little hiccups — Coran patted the pipe again — but it was the amazing ship Grandpappy had dreamed of.

And now he believed it should have a temperature controlled kitchen sink once more. Coran straightened from his awkward crouch, popping his back with a satisfied crack, before picking his way out of the room and closing the heavy door.

The ringing silence in the hall was almost louder than the pipes had been.

Coran shook his head to clear it and then started with a spring in his step towards the kitchen to both check the results of his work and to see what Number Two was cooking up for dinner that—

Coran paused, jewel eyes widening as he looked at the small datapad he’d idly pulled from his belt.

That had been served over a varga ago now.

Oh dear.

Normally it wouldn’t be an issue and Number Two was very considerate about making sure to put leftovers — a strange human concept but one Coran had heartily embraced — aside for those who had missed meals, but this one had been special as Number Four had popped in that morning to drop off some Blade intel for Number One and Allura, but had been cajoled into staying for the evening and after confirming with Kolivan that it was all right — and honestly, Coran would have had words if the answer had been anything but as Number Four looked so _tired_ and a day of rest with his fellow Paladins (once a Paladin always a Paladin in Coran’s book unless your name happened to start with a Z and end with -arkon) was just what he needed — and Number Two had planned a lavish meal for it.

Coran’s stomach grumbled sadly and he patted it in comfort. It was possible the team was still gathered in the kitchen before one of those fun movie nights Number Three insisted they have after the fact since Number Two had made a dessert as well. It was a little strange that no one (Number Two or Three or the princess)  had tried to reach him on the datapad as this was a meal of more importance than typical but, Coran reasoned he wouldn’t have seen or heard the message anyway.

Coran emerged four levels later in the stairwell by the kitchen to a complete lack of sound coming from it. It seemed he had missed them.

Well, he would fix himself up a plate and then go to the lounge where they convened for their movies. Their selection was small, only three Earth titles, but Coran hoped it was the singing one with the strangely drawn curly kneecapped characters. He thought the little half goat-man-creature was hysterical.

Coran strolled into the kitchen humming again, the light sensors kicking on as he crossed the threshold.

They revealed a mess and not the food goo malfunction or Number One attempting to assist in the kitchen kind.

The table was overturned — and were those _laser_ marks? — and food and cutlery was every which way with the stove still on and a pot overturned on it and—

And blood.

Oh Alaraan.

Red droplets were splattered across the floor, puddled in one place and smeared in othere as though something had been dragged through it.

Like a body.

Coran felt his heart seize in his chest.

What had happened?

No alarm had gone off on his datapad, which would have been vibrating and flashing and he’d have seen that no matter how knee-deep in plumbing he was. Which meant…

Coran’s mind raced with the implications.

It meant that somehow someone (or someones) had completely undetected boarded the castle (while in space mind you) and then surprised and attacked the Paladins in their own home and _hurt_ them.

It brought back vivid memories of the last time there had been an attack from inside and Coran repressed the shudder as images of Number Three’s still form, hurt from saving _him_ although they’d known each other for barely a few quintants and from that point on giving Coran near constant heart-attacks with how quick the young human was to make himself into a literal shield for others, came to mind.

His hands clenched at his sides.

Not again.

Never again.

And unlike last time Coran was here now, not on a mission to retrieve a crystal that although he knew had been needed he still regretted leaving, still regretted not realizing the extent of the danger that had almost cost them everything.

And whoever had invaded the castle and hurt those he considered like family would very very dearly regret it.

Now what to do?

It would be foolish to announce himself as he was; whoever had done this had clearly gotten the jump on six combat ready individuals, and while not all of them would likely have had their bayards on them inside their _home_ Number One was always armed (literally) and no doubt Number Four had his luxite blade on him, not to mention the princess’ sheer strength and Number Two was no slouch either. Which meant that this was likely not a single enemy as there had clearly been a fight and six on one no matter who the opponent Coran would bet on his team.

How many though were a part of this attack?

And _why?_

Could it be Lotor’s forces? They had underestimated the prince before and he did have a rather roundabout method of engaging rather than the frontal approach of most Galra and between he and his generals they could have had the necessary strength to overwhelm the Paladins. Coran nodded to himself. He would go with that reasoning for now, which meant he was potentially up against five very, very dangerous individuals.

Well, he’d faced worst odds.

None were coming to mind at this exact second but Coran insisted to himself there had to be. Perhaps at the Battle of Grapplehorn when he’d been in the king’s infantry services? Or the uprising of Plarlia when he’d accidentally wound up in the firefight _outside in space_ as he’d been performing maintenance on the Yellow Lion’s outer paneling and his shouts had been drowned out by the thrusters.

He refused to put the moment Alfor had asked him to step into a cryo-pod and go into stasis with his daughter as the universe fell apart around them in the rankings. All hope had been lost there.

It would not be so this time.

“All right, Coran,” he gave himself a pep talk. “The princess and the Paladins are in danger. You are their only hope.”

Coran paled in the face of his words.

Oh Alaraan.

He was their only hope.

He shook his head as though it could shake out the negative thoughts.

He couldn’t think like that.

He could do this.

He _would_ do this.

Now where to start?

Not in the kitchen, Coran decided. Whatever had happened had been at least some time ago  as smaller spots of blood were drying already to a dark russet. Given that and the fact the Paladins had been gathered in the kitchen Coran had to estimate no longer than a varga from now.

He could feel too that the ship was still stationary from where it had been anchored which meant… well, he was not quite sure. The Galra would have the means to tractor in even something as large as the castleship.

Coran froze.

What if the reason the ship was not moving was because no one was aboard it?

Oh Alaraan. They could have been removed from the ship, prisoners of war, and hastened onto Lotor’s ship because the prince was not his father and was not so obsessed with the Voltron Lions that he would insist on retrieving them from their hangars and given his smaller craft he likely could not tow the castle along.

They could be _anywhere._ Lotor could be doing _anything_ to them and Coran’s stomach clenched with a fear he could not begin to give voice to.

Lotor was not Zarkon, that was true, and that meant in his own way he was even crueler than his father. He saw people as pawns and discarded them just as easily when they either failed to be of importance or amusement.

And while being a Paladin should grant all of them some sort of political immunity, some reason to be left alive and Number Four, even though not in Blade armor could no doubt be identified as such by his luxite knife of which Lotor would of course recognize, it did not mean Lotor would not hurt them.

Coran had to hurry.

But hurry _where?_

None had been in their armor which meant there was nothing to track.

The bridge.

He needed to get to the bridge. His datapad was useful for alerts and schematics but it did not provide access to the cameras and although there were none in the kitchen (because why would the kitchen need cameras? Why would their _home?)_ there would be shots of some of the exit hallways and the hangars were all audio-recorded as well and maybe, _maybe,_ that one more talkative general had dropped some clue as to where they were headed.

It was all Coran had to work with.

He prayed it was enough.

Despite the urgency of the situation Coran ran as silently as he could because Lotor could have left behind sentries or even one of the generals to keep watch over the ship until he could return. He would be of no help if he went and got himself caught now. He had been overlooked and Lotor would never regret it more.

Coran was grateful for his caution as the sound of voices, raised although the words were indistinct, met his ears in the hall right before he entered the bridge.

Someone was still here.

His hands fisted at his sides. Well, he would just have to give them the old one-two-punch and demand the whereabouts of his wayward—

There was the sound of a second voice, higher in pitch and a tad breathy.

Someones, Coran amended as he inched down the hall.

But…

But he knew this voice.

Number Three.

Lance.

“—’s right, you hit like a cowa—”

There was the sound of an impact on flesh and then a _thud_ that nearly had Coran jumping.

Exclamations of “Lance!” and “Stop it!” sounded, only to be cut off by the whining charge of a blaster and a strangled sounding gasp.

Hostage situation, Coran thought faintly.

And at least Lance was a part of it and he had definitely heard Allura’s voice and Number Two’s panicked yell of the other boy’s name.

Three for sure on the bridge, possibly the others as well.

And despite the circumstances Coran let out a breath of relief.

At least they were _here._

He was nearly at the door now, left wide open thankfully.

Just a quick peek to get a lay of the land, which generals were present.

Coran popped his head around the frame.

He pulled back a moment later, eyes wide and heart thumping.

Not Lotor.

But he wasn’t sure this was any better.

Because inside the bridge besides all six Paladins were four Norians — two at the console and two surrounding the Paladins.

“What  a loudmouthed boy you are. If you have nothing worth saying then do not speak at all.” The words were harsh, a rasping sort of grating sound that even ten thousand years later filled Coran with equal parts rage and fear.

The Norians didn’t seem to have changed much. They were apparently still after knowledge and even now, after all this time,  Altean technology was highly coveted, especially the teladuv.

One would think a race that focused on knowledge would be the good kind of sort, full of scholars and ideas and very good allies. But the Norians were the opposite. Instead of gathering knowledge to learn from it and share their findings, they hoarded it in their underground tunnels with the ultimate goal to possess all of the universe’s secrets and to eliminate all those who once had known such knowledge before so that they would be the sole keepers of it. It was a quest for power with the sole purpose of utter destruction and control and it was sickening.

Alfor had led an official campaign against them with the Paladins of Voltron after they had committed genocide of Thexies, but the Norians were clever and burrowed deep into their planet’s underground maze and set of a variety of traps, including several poisonous gases that had seeped through even the Paladin armor, and those that had led them there escaped in the resulting confusion and panic, the army finding later that the rest of the colony had already vacated prior to their arrival.

Cowards.

Daibazaal had been destroyed not long after and the rest was history. Coran had quite frankly near forgotten about the Norians in light of what future he had awoken to but there was no forgetting the grating rasp of their voices or the glimmer of their six eyes or the whisper of pincer-like appendages of their hands.

And now they were here.

And they would stop at nothing until they had what they wanted.

In his brief glance Coran had taken note of the Paladins and he did not like what he’d seen. Number One had been unconscious, no doubt perceived as the greatest threat. Coran dearly hoped that, as bad as it was, the Norians’ interest remained on the castle and not on the robotic arm.

Number Four had been the source of the blood in the kitchen, the color staining his shirt and his skin pale. It had been he, arms cuffed behind his back and forced into a kneel, that had warranted the blaster whine as a gun was pressed to his head and silencing the others.

The remaining four were also cuffed in the same fashion and kneeling in various degrees save for Lance, who was curled on his side, back to Coran, and although he could not see the boy’s face he had no doubt he was in some measure of pain given the sound of the strike.

“We have told you,” Allura’s voice sounded, “we do not know the answer to your question. We cannot assist you. Continually demanding as such will not change my response.”

“And I think you just need a little more incentive, Princess,” came the sneer followed by another short gasp that should not ever belong to Number Four.

Coran’s stomach clenched as the gasp turned into a strangled cry.

He risked one more glance.

The Norian was grinding the blaster against the boy’s chest where the wound lay.

“Stop it!” Lance was back on his knees and Coran could see now a trickle of blood leaking from his temple. “Don’t hurt him!”

The second Norian stepped forward and before Coran could blink a clawed foot was smashing against Lance’s shoulders and sending him face first into the ground.

“Control your attack dog, Princess,” warned the Norian, voice higher and accompanied by the new charging whine of a blaster that was aimed at the back of the dark head. Female, Coran placed. “Or I’ll put him and the other one down permanently.”

“Lance,” and Allura’s voice shook then on the syllable, complete opposite of the calm of before. A plea, a warning.

Lance let out a muffled groan as the alien pressed more weight into his back but he managed a nod against the floor.

Coran realized he’d been there much too long and retreated his gaze back around the doorframe.

“And see, you can be reasoned with,” the male Norian spoke. “So let me propose a solution to our little problem here, Princess. Are you listening?”

Quiet echoed.

“I said,” and Number Four made that horrible gasping noise again, “are you listening?”

“I am listening,” Allura’s voice was even again although Coran could hear the fear behind it this time.

She was still so young. He forgot sometimes given how much she had grown in such a short time but she was young. They all were.

“There are six of you here including yourself,” the Norian said, cutting into his thoughts. “I’ll give you five dobashes for each one for a total of thirty dobashes. In that time you will come to the decision to tell me how to operate your teladuv. But once that time runs out and we do not have the answers we seek… well, I think you know what will happen. And,” Coran could almost hear the sharp grin, “we’ll start with the loudmouthed one.”

“As I told you,” Allura’s voice wavered ever so, “I do not know the answer to your question. No one here does. Threatening the lives of—”

“And we’re ten ticks in.”

There was the sound of a sucked in breath, the action Allura had made since she was a child when she was trying not to raise her voice in frustration. Her tutors had never been able to rid her of the habit (a tell, they said, too obvious for diplomatic relations and _especially_ for a princess) and while Coran had never minded (it showed passion) right now she was showing far, far too much concern, too much vulnerability.

Something even worse was going to happen. He could feel it.

He didn’t know what to do.

Not yet.

“I am attempting to explain to you—”

“You know what?” the Norian cut her off again. “This isn’t entertaining enough, not for thirty generous dobashes. So let’s liven it up. Get to your feet, loudmouth; let him up, Marlib. Quicky now. Or…”

There was only a hiss that time from Number Four but it was enough.

Coran’s heart was in his throat.

He still couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything, not yet.

Not until their lives were in mortal danger and he should have thirty dobashes until that moment.

He sent a silent prayer towards Lance for his forgiveness for whatever was about to happen.

“Good, good. Now, here’s what we’re going to do. Since you don’t like it when I hurt your teammates,” and there was another strangled sound from Number Four, “I’ll let you do it instead.”

Confused silence echoed.

“Your energy cuffs are now released,” and based on the soft inhale audible from even here that was indeed what had happened, “but I warn you, should you move to attack myself or any of my companions…” There was no need for any further demonstration but the Norian seemed to delight in the pained noises he kept pulling forward from Number Four. “Any questions so far?”

“No,” the answer was bit out. Coran could picture the vein pulsing in the boy’s throat.

“Once per dobash you will hurt one of your team until either the princess tells me what I want or until I kill you at the end of the half varga. Any of them will do and in whatever manner you’d like. But when I say hurt them…” the Norian’s voice lowered. “I mean _hurt_ them. And if you do not then I will hurt you even more. And should you fail to get back to your feet after I punish you for your refusal, I will hurt one of your friends too. And some of them,” Number Four made another pained sound, “really can’t afford that, now can they?”

“Don’t touch them,” Lance near growled, tone darker than Coran had ever heard it.

Dark and protective.

Coran’s heart twisted and swelled in the same instance.

This game…

This game was beyond cruel.

“I suppose that’s all up to you, isn’t it? And look at that, it’s been a dobash now. Go ahead and pick someone.”

“No,” and it was delivered the same as before. Without looking Coran knew Lance had lifted his chin up, hands no doubt fisted at his sides.

He would never hurt his team.

A tick later there was a scream over the sound of a crackle of electricity and the thud of a body striking the floor and other screams of Lance’s name.

The cuffs, while no longer tethered, still possessed shock capabilities.

Dear Alaraan.

Coran swallowed thickly…

And backed away.

It was only going to get worse, the attacks more cruel.

And there were only twenty-nine dobashes left before someone, _Lance,_ was killed, and honestly Number Four wasn’t looking very good at this point either. Coran didn’t feel it was a fatal wound but there was quite a bit of blood and the Norians were continuing to inflict pain upon him.

It may be a different enemy than Coran had envisioned but the goal was the same: rescue the Paladins.

Now he just had a deadline.

What to do, what to do?

The bridge was hooked up to all of the cameras on the ship, so wherever he went he had to make certain to avoid showing himself as although the two Norians by the console weren’t actively scouring the cameras he didn’t want to accidentally alert them if they happened to glance up.

He also had to remain somewhat in proximity though because if worse came to worse and he had to intervene he had to be close enough to do so.

Coran silently snapped his fingers as the idea struck him.

He’d go up.

The main console was on the bridge, yes, but all of its cables ran up and through the walls and ceiling and then connected to thousands of other parts that worked to power the entire castleship. Coran had spent so many years of his childhood playing in the nooks and crannies as the ship was built and he knew _exactly_ what section to worm himself into for the main cable, which would then give him access to every part of the castle.

And that meant…

That meant every piece of technology, every feature, everything that the Norians desired would be under his command.

They wanted to see Altean technology?

A sharp grin turned up his moustache.

He would give them a front row seat.

Coran ended up two hallways over, no sign of any Norians and he did hope the only ones there were on the bridge, before he pried off the plating on one of the ventilation panels and climbed inside.

He winced within a few moments.

Little Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe had been little indeed. The adult version of the gorgeous man he had become was not meant to wriggle through vents.

But he would.

He ended up having to ditch his jacket, the shoulder pads just a hair too wide, and in any case the heat from the enclosed space was making him sweat and just like with the slipperies it was allowing his now bare shoulders to glide (sort of) smoothly through the vents. His tablet ended up clenched in his jaw, all sound alerts turned off, and he kept having to rechomp down on it.

It was a good thing Altean saliva was so hygienic that they used it in their cleaning supplies. Otherwise it would be one slobbery mess.

Finally, _finally,_ Coran propelled himself, getting lost only twice to where he ended up on the ground level and  then above the accelerator (and that could have been catastrophic) to a chamber barely the size of his closet but where a beautiful, familiar power box blinked cheerily.

He could also hear muffled yelling.

A glance at the tablet showed it had been six minutes since he’d left.

Six more tortures to Lance.

Only twenty-four to go before they…

Coran set his tablet down first and then made for one of the ceiling grates, a distorted view of the bridge down below greeting him.

“—please, Lance, please,” Number Two’s voice, raw and _scared_ filtered up. “Please. _Hermano,_ please. I can take a hit. _Please._ Stop… stop this.”

Lying right in front of the larger human was Lance, brought to his knees and a scarlet stain spreading down his right arm sleeve where a knife quivered like a small flag out of it.

Coran saw red.

He forced himself to take a shuddering breath. He couldn’t give away his position or he would be of no help to anyone.

What was that saying Number One was so fond of?

“Patience yields focus,” Coran muttered it below his breath. “Patience yields focus.”

He didn’t think it was helping the way it was supposed to.

The male Norian still had Number Four in his grasp, gun pressed once more to his temple, preventing any sudden action on behalf of Lance or his fellow Paladins.

All they had were their voices and their pleas fell on deaf ears of Lance and the invaders alike.

“N-no,” Lance choked out, hand lighting around the handle of the knife.

Oh no.

Coran could say nothing as Lance _yanked_ on it, pulling it with a sickening squelch from his flesh although it was barely audible over the sound of his own shout.

Coran used the moment for all it was worth, fingers already sunk into the mesh grate, and _pulled_ it back. His strength popped it right out with only a whisper of a screech that was swallowed by the new shouts from the Paladins, aimed at both Lance and the Norians, as Lance  fell back to rest on his feet, panting and crimson drops splattering the floor and the knife clattering away.

No one saw Coran.

He set it carefully against the wall and as hard as it was to do so he backed away from the hole.

Now was not the time to dive in for the rescue and the opening was too far away from the hub he needed to connect to to keep an eye on the proceedings.

“Hold on, my boy,” he whispered, one last glance showing Lance struggling to regain his feet.

He had work to do.

Deft fingers went from the show of strength to breaking open the power box and withdrawing pieces of its inner workings to attach to his tablet to act now as the console. A few tweaks later — and one more bout of screaming and the sizzling noise of shock cuffs again that Coran could not allow himself to pay attention to — he was hooked up and ready to go.

He first ran through the cameras, not caring right now about _how_ the Norians got in (although when all this was over he most certainly would do so) but checking to make sure it was only the four pictured on the bridge that had boarded.

It was.

Thank Alaraan.

Exterior feeds showed a blip of a signature resting on the far point of the castle although nothing visually was there. Cloaking, Coran scowled. And given the size the castle alarms would not have been triggered thinking it was a piece of debris.

Something to be modified in the future.

Now the question was how to go about disabling the Norians without putting the Paladins’ lives in further jeopardy. If they suspected an attack they could easily kill Number Four in retaliation as it was not like they did not have other hostages to use.

Coran had to be _careful._

And he had just the thing.

The Norians were an intelligent (if deplorable, greedy, horrific and a whole host of other descriptors Coran could not spend time thinking on) race and believed in the power of technology and science.

That made them superstitious to things that could not be fully explained.

That was Coran’s ticket to all of this.

He remembered, and oh Alaraan what a mess that had been, when the castle’s crystal had been corrupted. Haunted, Lance had called the ship. It was what their small human brains had latched onto to try and explain away the unknown fears. There had been no enemy to fight in a haunted castle, nothing tangible to cast blame on.

Which meant that, hopefully, ire would not be turned onto the Paladins but instead fear would grow. He just had to take the time to set it up, to lay out his potential traps and hope, _pray,_ that they would be enough.

Lance’s screams and the other Paladins’ shouts were his accompaniment.

He grit his teeth and forced himself to keep working, fingers flying over the screen.

With fourteen left to the Norians thirty dobash game he finished.

A glimpse below showed Lance on his hands and knees, arms braced on the floor and trembling mightily as blood gushed down the one arm and, to Coran’s new horror, a glowing cord was wrapped about the boy’s neck and connected to the female Norian’s, Marlib if Coran remembered correctly, hands.

A leash.

A quiznaking energy leash.

The alien gave a harsh jerk on it just as Lance was bracing one trembling foot on the ground and he collapsed back down to the floor with a strangled cry.

“Stop it!” Allura’s voice was high, choked with tears and pleading even though she knew it would do no good. “Stop it, please!”

“Ten ticks, loudmouth,” Marlib taunted, ignoring Allura. “Hurry up now or…” her gaze flicked towards Number Two, who to Coran’s pride met it with a look of utter steel and hot fury despite the tear tracks coating his cheeks.

And that was Coran’s cue.

Showtime.

And with a quick tap the lights on the bridge went off.

They returned within the tick with the chorus of shouts.

“What did you touch?” snarled out the female Norian to the two by the computer systems.

“Nothing!” protested the largest of them all, pincers held up innocently.

“Princess,” snarled the male Norian, Keith gagging silently in his grip as his arm tightened in a chokehold, “if this is—”

“We have done nothing,” Allura retorted. “We are immobilized and—”

Coran flickered the lights again.

When they returned Lance had been dragged by the lead into the female Norian’s hands and she had a blaster of her own pressed to his head while Keith had been forced to his feet and was only standing because of the arm tight about his chest with the gun still firmly in place.

“Show yourself!” demanded Marlib. “Or we will shoot them.”

Coran took a deep breath…

And flickered the lights again.

The blaster next to Lance’s head whined, pulsing with a blue light and the boy winced, no doubt from the heat, and the blood on the side of his temple dried and flaked instantly.

“Last warning, scum,” Marlib threatened. “Show yourself.”

“Call off your attack, Princess,” the male Norian said, voice harsh but even.

“This is not our doing,” Allura snapped back, chin jutted forward and as high as she could go on her knees and Coran felt a swell of pride. “Threatening us does nothing to your situation.”

“Then what is happening?” he demanded.

“Maybe…” Number Two’s voice was tentative, eyes darting from Allura to Lance and then to Number Four.

“Speak,” Marlib commanded. Lance gagged in her grasp as her hand pulled tighter on the lead and the noose — Coran felt his blood boil at the sight.

“Maybe, um, the castle is… is haunted?”

“Haunted?” the Norian repeated with skepticism.

“Yeah,” Number Five piped up although without her usual fire, her eyes pointedly fixed on Number Four who was too pale for his already light complexion, which Coran knew was from the puddle of scarlet that his foot was now smearing through. “It was before. Tried to kill us and everything.”

The large Norian at the console let out a soft murmur of fear and Coran’s grin sharpened.

“That’s it, Paladins,” he whispered. “Keep on it.”

“Why would an Altean castle try to kill its inhabitants?” scoffed Marlib.

“Because other than myself the others living here are not Altean,” Allura said. She cast her eyes almost thoughtfully to the ceiling as though it could yield answers and Coran backed up just in case from his hole. “I had thought we had… had done away with the ghost,” her voice caught ever so on the word and Coran winced.

He did not mean to bring up the painful memory of Alfor’s memory and sacrifice (second sacrifice) but…

“But it appears not,” she continued. “And before you make another inane demand, no, we do not control it.”

“There are no such things as ghosts,” Marlib said. “Your attempts to deceive us will cost you—”

Coran toggled the lights once more, but this time when he brought them back he kept them at an intermittent flicker, the console joining in as well.

The large Norian let out a soft moan and stepped away from it.

“It is just lights, you fools,” the  male Norian said, clearly bolstered by the female’s skepticism. “No doubt a faulty crystal. There is nothing to fear here.”

His gaze swung back to Lance. “And now we are well past our next dobash. Marlib, release him. Boy, strike one of your teammates or suffer once more unless the princess wishes to finally provide answers.”

Lance’s eyes narrowed in answer of his own as Marlib relinquished her tight hold on him but kept the leash wrapped about her forearm.

Coran shook his head.

No.

Not again.

Time for the next phase.

It was time to really let the Altean technology take center stage.

And Number Five was not the only one who was a hologram expert.

Coran pressed on the controls and waited. Any tick now and—

“What is _that?”_ screeched the previous silent fourth Norian and Coran hid a chuckle of delight as every gaze swung to the far side of the room…

Where a blue and white figure floated out of the wall, billowing robe moving on an invisible breeze and a hood hiding the specter’s face. Silver bloodstains dripping from where a sword impaled through its front completed the look. A little gory for Coran’s tastes but he was going for a shock factor and based upon the reactions it had done the trick.

“That’d be the ghost,” Lance said, voice quiet but smug as the figure floated towards them, head bowed.

“Impossible,” breathed the male Norian.

“It’s just a trick,” Marlib snarled. “Gravet, get a hold of yourself. It’s an Altean hologram, nothing more.”

“Could a hologram do that?” Number Five asked and Coran was immensely pleased to see the cloaked hoverboard he’d steered in through the open door from the storage room down the hall was doing its job of keeping up with the hologram and dripping fluid from its exhaust port that in the still flickering light looked as silver as the fake blood.

Not bad if he did say so himself.

“Gh-gh-ghost,” Number Two stuttered, falling onto his rear end and eyes wide saucers on his face.

Whether it was impeccable acting or actual fear or a mixture of both Coran gave silent thanks to the theatrics as the Norians all shifted uneasily.

“Watch,” Marlib stalked forward towards the ‘ghost.’ “It is nothing except—”

Coran activated the thrusters on the hoverboard in time with the coded hologram and the robes flared wide at the same time a burst of frigid air permeated the air as the pincer-hand dove into the hologram’s chest.

The Norian’s gasp and hasty retreat backwards was music to Coran’s ears.

Lance’s stifled laughter turned to a cough around his pain and Allura’s sharp inhale were even better.

The hood had blown back and the figure’s face had lifted up, revealing a hardened looking warrior…

With Coran’s infamous moustache.

Coran tweaked his own with delight.

“Ghost,” Gravet, and Coran would remember that name and make sure he paid for the pain he had caused his Paladins, “we command you to—”

The ghost raised one of his hands and the Norian cut off, audibly swallowing.

“Ghost,” Marlib spoke. “Our quarrel is not with you. Stand down or…” she began to walk across the floor towards where Allura, an Altean, knelt.

Not on Coran’s watch would he see his princess harmed any further.

Coran pushed the control for the second cloaked hoverboard.

The thrusters _roared_ and a flash of blue fire erupted seemingly from the ghost’s outstretched hand and at Marlib.

She ducked to the side, hitting the ground with a clatter of her armor, and regaining her feet.

Coran was not done.

He shot another blast and Marlib ducked down.

The Norian standing behind her at the console was not quite so fast and the flames struck.

He _screamed._

The large Norian fled the room with a shriek while Marlib rushed to the wounded one’s side, unfortunately yanking Lance after her and he had no choice but to stumble with lest he be dragged.

Coran did not give them a moment to rest as the female patted out the flames.

It was time for them to be on the run.

He had the ghost shoot one more fireball at the two, wishing he could attack Gravet but not willing to risk Number Four, who was sagging in the harsh hold and gun still pressed to his head, although it flew too high as he didn’t want to accidentally damage the console either, and then deactivated the hologram.

He’d need that later.

Next part.

The alarm.

The emergency lights all about the bridge flared to life with bright red light and accompanying it…

The glorious sound of Lance’s attempt of a siren. Coran had been so delighted with the strange sound — modeled after an ambulance, he’d been told, that even after Number One had shut down the antics Coran had had Lance record the sound for him.

Seeing Lance’s unguarded smile now and sheer relief on his face was all worth it.

“Turn it off!” shouted Gravet and some of Coran’s joy faded as Number Four flinched.

That’s right. Galrans had more acute hearing and no doubt that coupled on top of everything else was causing him severe pain.

Coran pledged to make it up to him with some of his grandmama’s famous gamibolap recipe that, try as he might to hide it, Coran knew the half-human had quite the sweet tooth.

“Bear with me just a few ticks more,” Coran whispered, promised.

The half-singed Norian was back at the console, the armor having taken the brunt of it unfortunately, pincers flying.

“I can’t!” he cried out.

Coran upped the volume with a silent apology.

Gravet, to his displeasure, did not clamp his hands on his ears and release Number Four as he’d hoped would happen.

He shut it off a few ticks later, the silence ringing almost as loud.

In that interim where everyone slowly blinked, tensed, as though waiting for another assault, Coran turned his attention to where he’d sent a droid bots from the training deck outside through one of the small airlocks.

And ah, there they were, right on time.

“All right,” he murmured as the surrounded the cloaked Norian ship. “Let’s see what happens now…”

And he pressed the key for them all to fire.

The lasers were not all that powerful; they were for training purposes after all.

But nearly two hundred of them concentrated on a single spot?

A different alarm began to sound, not one belonging to the castle.

The female Norian dug into her uniform and pulled out a small device. All six of her eyes widened.

“The ship!” she gasped. She turned to the Norian at the console. “Pull up the exterior cameras. _Now!”_

They saw what Coran saw on his feed: a burst of flames on their now visible ship… and the floating figure of the Altean ghost surveying it all.

“Marlib, go!” snapped Gravet.

He sounded shaken.

The Altean technology and failsafes had proven impassable as of yet and their own ship was their only way off should they be unable to coerce Allura into operating the ship for them.

They would be stranded in a seemingly haunted ship.

Coran breathed a small sigh of relief as _finally_ Lance was freed from her grasp as she turned to run from the room, the cord dissolving as the armor plates shifted on her and a helmet materialized to make some sort of space-safe uniform.

She was foolish if she thought she was going to make it to her ship.

Coran had plans for her.

She would meet the same fate as the coward Norian who had tried already to flee.

He flipped the switch on the bridge to activate the alarms again and rematerialized the hologram after dematerializing it from the outside view. He programmed it along with the still cloaked hoverboard (he truly owed Number Five so much for her amazing cloaking technology; it was she the Norians would love to get their hands on and he was so so grateful they had not realized her value) to fire off several shots.

That should keep them busy for a couple minutes while he turned his attention to the other scene. This Marlib was not the pushover ilk of her companion.

The gladiator may need some assistance.

Coran was more than happy to provide.

He’d positioned the lethal training bot in the hangar that the Norians had docked against as it had cameras so he could keep an eye on it. It had already easily dispatched the large Norian, the figure facedown on the hangar floor with brown ichor spilling all around.

Coran was not fond of killing. He’d seen too much of it in too short a timespan, seen too much death and pain and suffering for him to ever wish to contribute any more to it.

But these Norians had hurt his family. _Tortured_ several of them and threatened to kill them, a fact Coran knew was not a matter of if but when. They would not stop, the desire for the Altean’s technology too strong. And if they escaped… they would be back and no doubt in far, far greater numbers.

They were a threat and one that if Coran did not stop here would only become more dangerous. The Norians had shown that they could not be reasoned with in the past and had demonstrated the same today.

Coran would make it quick. It was more than they granted their countless victims, his vision filled with images of the genocide he’d witnessed and the collapsed Alteans for whom the poison had been too much.

And ah, she had reached the hangar.

There was no audio and the view was not the best from the high-ceiling camera, but Coran saw the moment she viewed her fallen comrade before her eyes traced to the blood-soaked sword of the gladiator.

He saw too the moment she went to contact her team and only static burst in her ear from the communication disabler Coran had one of the bots place and that he’d programmed from afar.

And then the moment the hangar door slammed shut at her back, layers and layers of udiuum steel that nothing could cut through.

There would be no backup for her.

There would be no escape.

There would only be the end.

“Go,” Coran whispered, keying in the highest level programming sequence he knew.

The gladiator flew forward.

The Norian was no match for it.

She tried, Coran gave her that. She rolled and ducked and when her blaster burned a hole through its chest and it kept coming she switched to a short-sword crackling with energy.

Not even a dobash later she tried to run.

The gladiator shot out an energy cord and wrapped it about one of her legs, pulling on it and tossing her to the ground.

It was her turn now to be the one leashed.

But Coran did not think himself a cruel man, nor did he have the time to engage in such activities.

He let the gladiator swing her around a few times, just until her helmet disengaged.

The robot stopped moving then, the energy cord dissipating.

Marlib struggled painfully to her feet, casting a wary look at the gladiator.

Coran engaged the magnets in the gladiator’s feet.

And then he opened the hangar door.

There was not even a blink for her to scream before she, the body, and every piece of loose cargo was ejected into the void of space.

As Grandpappy would say, just taking out the trash.

The sounds of the thrusters turned fireballs was still ongoing below him and Coran turned his attention back to the bridge just as he heard the screams.

“Let him go! Let him go!” Number Five’s voice was shrill and Number Two was yelling something wordless and Allura’s voice was nearly drowned out in all of it although he heard it.

His name.

“Coran! Coran,  _please!”_

Coran dashed over to the opening.

His blood went to ice.

The hologram and hoverboard were still firing but the unnamed Norian had stopped cowering behind the console and had instead attached his own energy cord around Lance, wrapped tight about his chest, and was dragging him across the floor…

Into the line of fire.

Lance had his heels dug into the ground, eyes pinpricked in the still flashing lights and the bursts of blue fire that were not even a foot from him and heat brushing his cheeks.

“Call off your ghost!” screeched the Norian, still tugging Lance.

“We cannot!” Allura screamed, on her own feet now although a bellow from Gravet and a short cry from Number Four halted her as the Norian dug his charged blaster into the half-human’s chest and blood _gushed_ down his front.

“Lance!” wailed Number Two.

The boy in question did not answer save for a ragged sounding gasp as his feet slipped forward a few more inches.

He’d be in the path of the fire any tick.

Coran swore.

And slammed on the control to turn off the hoverboard.

“So,” the Norian panted into the silence, hand going slack on the tether and Lance took a wobbling step backwards at the give. “You do control the—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence as Coran activated the second hoverboard that had been floating beneath the hologram and flames burst across the expanse.

The shriek that was pulled from the alien was one that Coran knew he would not forget.

He didn’t regret it at all as the flames sank through the already compromised armor, latching onto the Norian’s visible flesh and sending the acidic smell and smoke of burnt metal wafting.

Three down.

One to go.

And right on time the gladiator arrived in the doorway.

“No,” Gravet muttered. “No no no.”

He backed up, away from both the hologram and the gladiator, pulling Number Four in front of him as a human shield.

Coran had never been so disgusted.

“I will kill him,” he said, grinding the blaster further into Number Four’s chest. “You will let me leave, unharmed. You or your ghost will not stop me.”

“Let him go,” came Allura’s demand, still on her feet and eyes flashing.

The gladiator took a step closer.

The gun whined and Number Four let out a hoarse whimper.

“Last chance,” Gravet warned. “You let me leave now or I will kill him right here.”

“Get your hands off of him,” Number Two was on his feet now and Lance had staggeringly made his way over to the other Paladins, hands untethered but he too knew how dangerous it would be to move with the hostage scenario.

Coran halted the gladiator too.

He knew the Norian would shoot. He could feel it.

It was time for the last part of his plan. He prayed it worked. If it didn’t...

He sent the ghost to float away, disappearing through the far wall and the gladiator’s eyes dimmed, indicating the power was turned off, and directed the hoverboard to a new location.

And then Coran took a deep breath.

Time for the finale.

“No more tricks,” the Norian warned, backing up towards the door and towing Keith with him and casting nervous eyes at the still gladiator.

Blood still dripped from its sword.

Coran stepped onto the hoverboard, fully visible now to the Paladins by the ceiling. He gave them credit; none reacted to him except for a faint widening of eyes.

The Norian did not see him, back to Coran.

“Let him go,” Allura repeated.

The Norian let out an unhinged laugh. “I’ll be back, just you wait. With a whole _army_ to kill you all, to take over your ship. We’ll uncover your Altean secret technology without you, Princess.”

Coran began his silent descent, peach skin rippling and giving way to rocky brown and fingers sharpening into claws and teeth into fangs.

Careful.

Silent.

He only had one chance.

“You’ll regret putting this boy’s life above all else.” Coran could not see but based on the newest whimper no doubt that accursed blaster had just pressed once more into the wound.

So close.

Almost there.

He slipped silently off the hoverboard, tablet carefully in hand.

His index finger, not morphed as the rest, hovered over the final command button.

“You’ll regret not giving us what we wanted. No one can save you. Not your allies. Or your precious coalition. Not even your ghost. No one can stand before the full might of the Norian Supremacy.”

“I think you are mistaken,” Coran whispered, fangs nearly nipping at the Norian’s head from behind.

And he pressed the button.

The tablet sparked in his hand at the same time the Norian made to whirl around, the whine of the gun as he went to pull the trigger…

And nothing happened.

Coran grinned sharply.

Weapon neutralized.

Any piece of technology that had been within one foot of the tablet, including his poor tablet turned into a remote, had been negated via an electromagnetic pulse of the genius design of Numbers Two and Five that pulled not from something the humans called electricity but the more common power source of crystals.

The Norian did not even have a chance to finish his turn before Coran’s fist was impacting with his face.

He went flying.

Number Four did too, the Norian somehow keeping his arm tight about the boy’s chest.

Coran cursed and charged after them.

Number Four though had apparently had enough of playing the role of victim and without an active gun pressed into him he summoned up a strength that Coran admired anew and slammed an elbow backwards into the alien’s stomach.

It wasn’t strong enough to do any real damage against the armor but it was enough of an impact that the Norian let go and Number Four took a staggering step away before he collapsed to his knees.

“I’ve got him!” Lance yelled, not quite steady on his feet either but beelining in their direction and Coran left him to it, his attention on Gravet, who had pulled a set of dual blades from his holster. They were clearly meant to work with some sort of technological aspect based on the boxy handles, but they were deadly weapons within their own right.

Especially when Coran did not have a sword himself.

But he could remedy that.

In a moment.

“You wish to leave?” he smiled unforgivingly, not afraid despite the apparent odds. “You will have to go through me.”

“Gladly.”

The Norian charged with a yell, swords flashing through the air. Coran ducked one and caught the second against his arm.

The hardened flesh, modeled after the Succlui race, absorbed most of the blow, and Coran created a set of hardened spiked nubs after the Pringal race to try and capture the blade against his arm, although the Norian was quick enough to pull his weapon free.

Gravet’s eyes widened.

“A shapeshifter,” came his murmur, both awed and terrified all at once, as he backpedaled out of Coran’s reach.

“Our technology is not our only talent,” Coran’s fangs glinted.

“But just as rare,” and Coran could see despite the situation the sheer _greed_ dancing on the alien’s face. “We never were able to figure out how your biology worked before we thought you had all gone extinct. Oh, Altean, you and the princess will further our knowledge tenfold.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Let’s not be so dramatic. A living specimen is much more ideal. That said,” the Norian readied his swords, “I don’t mind using force.”

Coran lifted his clawed hands. “And neither do I.”

Gravet attacked.

Coran led him on a bobbing, weaving venture across the chamber, skirting around the Paladins and towards the door.

He allowed the other alien to land a few harder hits, allowed his flesh to soften to draw blood.

With each successful strike he saw the eyes darken with glee, saw the earlier bravado return. The Norian thought he was weakening him, was gaining the upper hand.

Foolish.

Coran danced around the inert gladiator, allowing the robot to take the next blow. He circled back around it to the front and Gravet matched him step for step.

“Come now, don’t hide,” Gravet taunted as Coran led him around the silent robot again. “Face your fate like a man.”

On the second pass Coran freed the blood-stained sword from the gladiator’s hold. It was heavy in his hand with both its weight and purpose.

Coran did not hesitate.

As the Norian emerged from their circular dance Coran lunged forward, sword angled like a spear.

He felt the dual blades skim along his arms, one actually cutting through flesh unintentionally.

His plunged through Gravet’s armor and into his chest.

“Wh—?” the Norian stumbled backwards, hands flying to his chest and swords clattering to the floor. “No. No no no.”

His eyes were widening now as brown ichor began to already drip from his mouth.

“No,” he whimpered, pincers grasping the hilt as though that could save him. “N-no. This cannot… cannot…”

He looked up at Coran, the barest of tears gathering in his eyes. “Pl-please… h-heal me.”

Coran loomed over him. “You asked me to face fate like a man,” he said softly, dangerously. “Now face your death like one.”

Gravet gave one last twitch, a gurgle…

And he fell over sideways.

Coran stood for a moment, making sure there was no trick of the Norian’s own, but the black eyes were dulling and Coran knew then the fight was over.

But not entirely.

His skin rippled back to peach, trickles of blood running down his battered arms, but he paid it no mind as he practically sprinted to the grouping of Paladins.

Number One was still unconscious but the others were grouped in a semi-circle, hands still cuffed behind them, where Lance was kneeling with Number Four propped up against him and Lance’s own jacket yanked off and balled up against the smaller boy’s chest.

He was so pale.

Even still his eyes were open, hazy purple orbs lighting on Coran and a fire still flickering in them.

Coran was comforted by the sight.

There was so much he wanted to say as a variety of gazes landed upon him; scared and awed and confused and proud and so so much gratitude, but there was no time for any of that.

“Let’s not dilly-dally,” he said, voice brighter than the situation might warrant but it felt right. He bent down and easily plucked Number Four into his arms. “You need a pod, my boy, and you as well, Lance.”

“I’m—”

“Say fine and I will punch you once I’m free,” Number Five interrupted and Lance gave a weak laugh.

“Coran,” Allura’s iteration this time was a soft murmur and although she did not have her hands accessible she leaned forward pressing her forehead against his arm. “Thank you,” he heard the whisper.

“You are most welcome, my princess,” he murmured back, pressing a quick but gentle kiss to the top of her head. “All right everyone, sit tight right here for a moment and I will—”

“We’re coming with you,” Number Five cut in again.

“All of us,” Lance said, even though he was swaying slightly. At Coran’s expression of both doubt and concern he said softer, “I can make it.”

They made an odd procession down the hall to the infirmary; Number Four in Coran’s arms and silent save for the shallow breaths although when Coran quietly inquired after him he’d received a raspy, “here,” and that was enough for now while the others toddled with their arms still bound although Lance still found a way to lean against Number Two, one of his arms looped through the other’s and Number Five on his other side. Allura had somehow managed to load Number One over her shoulder and was leaning slightly to keep him from slipping off without the use of her arms.

Coran got them to sit down once they arrived on the floor (and Number One laid out on a cot with Allura murmuring they had given him some sort of sedative in the kitchen but he should be fine with time) and none argued as he bustled Number Four to an exam table. The cuffs were a design he did not recognize but for as advanced as they were it was nothing a quick twist and yank of the mighty Altean plarnaks could not remove.

He took a quick peek, lifting up the shirt, and winced at the wound. Three shots, it looked like, and all still bleeding freely, no doubt from the abuse they had been put through. They were not clean ones either, like lasers typically were, but rough around the edges and the flesh already bruising.

A quick but thorough scan showed there were no foreign substances at least inside the boy’s chest from them and it was nothing the cryo-pod would not be able to fix in a few varga. Coran would make sure too there was plenty of juice and food when Number Four came out to help replenish some of the lost blood.

Coran bundled him into one of the cryo-suits over his bloodstained outfit, setting aside Lance’s jacket for a cold water bath and hoping the blood would come out.

“You’re going to be just fine, my boy,” Coran promised, carrying him over to one of the pods then.

“Thank you, Coran,” came the soft murmur, so gentle for Number Four. Coran gave him a small squeeze in return.

A moment later Coran felt more than heard the others getting up from their spots as he carefully loaded the half-human into the pod and those amethyst eyes popped open, drifting about the four others gathered around them.

“Thank you,” he whispered, lingering the longest on Lance who shot him a small, tight smile.

“Just glad you’re gonna be okay,” Lance murmured back.

Number Four nodded and that was Coran’s cue to close the door and a moment later it frosted over.

He turned then to the assembled group and quietly ordered each of them to turn around so he could remove the cuffs while Lance went over to one of the cabinets and retrieved a wad of gauze that he held to his arm.

“Lance, lad, you need a pod.”

“I’m okay,” Lance said, although he didn’t sound as such; voice small. “Please, Coran? I… I’ll be fine with this.”

Coran frowned but he would be blind to miss not only the darkening flush on the tan cheeks but the sheen of fear as a dark ocean gaze looked from him to the pod.

Coran had heard the story of what had happened, said with a flippant air, but he could hear the fear beneath that and had not pushed Lance to clean any of the pods since the initial castle “haunting.”

He supposed there had been enough throwbacks today already and other than the one stab wound and the dark ring of bruises beginning to show about the slender throat, most of the torture seemed to have come from the shock cuffs and nothing a little burn salve and some calming tea would not take care of.

“Very well,” he inclined his head and the boy’s relief was palatable. “But come here so I can inspect that.”

Lance hopped up onto the exam table with a little less grace than normal and Coran set to rolling up the sleeve and beginning his treatment.

“So…” Number Five drawled out the word. “Is no one going to comment on the fact of what a fucking badass Coran is?”

“A bad ass?” Coran repeated, wrinkling his nose. “I believe my buttocks are in perfectly good form, my dear.”

And the resulting light laughter and large grins of all three remaining conscious humans warmed Coran’s heart.

“No, no,” Number Two interjected. “It means, like, you’re super awesome. And cool. Very cool.”

“Oh,” Coran felt his own cheeks pinken with pleasure. “Why, well thank you. I am a very bad ass.”

“One word,” Number Five chuckled. “Don’t space it out. Badass. You’re a motherfucking badass, Coran.” She sobered then. “You…”

“You saved us all,” Allura said softly, placing a hand on Coran’s shoulder.

“I am only sorry I did not arrive sooner,” Coran said equally soft, meeting first her gaze and then Lance’s, who winced ever so as Coran adhered a butterfly stitch tape to seal the incision together. “I’m so sorry for what you all had to suffer. I’m so sorry you had to be in that kind of pain, especially you, my boy, and Number Four.”

“Coran, excessive apologizing is _my_ thing,” Lance said with a shaky smile. “You… you don’t have to apologize for anything. Without you… without you I’d be dead.”

And Coran knew he spoke the truth.

“We all would be,” Number Two said softly, threading one of his hands into Lance’s and placing his other on Coran’s other shoulder. “Thank you, Coran.”

Number Five joined the group, small arms wrapped about Coran’s waist.

“Thank you,” she whispered, glasses digging into his side uncomfortably but Coran did not mind one bit.

Lance leaned forward then slightly from the exam table and Coran met him, one arm snaking about his back and the boy’s forehead pressed against his shoulder.

“ _Gracias,”_ came the murmur.

Coran pressed a kiss to the top of the dark head and pulled his other arm about Allura and Number Five and sent Number Two a gentle smile.

“There is no need to thank me,” he said quietly. “I thank you, truly, but… but having you all here, safe, is all the thanks that I need.”

Coran would do anything to protect his team, his family, just as he knew they would for him. That was what he knew without an inkling of doubt.

And that version of knowledge, that show of love, was the greatest kind in the universe.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah BAMF!Coran ♥ Be still, my heart. Throw in some Lance (and Keith!) whump and some Allura moments all around not only badass but super protective Coran and mmm… What a recipe. This was a commission for Liashi (10k) asking for Coran as the star and attacking invaders to the castle using said castle along with a healthy aside of some Lance whump. Sign me up :D
> 
> As for the title, hehe, it’s a play from the song “This Is My Town” by Cartoon Boyfriend and it was the song played during the montage setup of booby-trapping the house in Home Alone 3 (which I will admit in my childhood was my favorite Home Alone movie because I liked the bigger plot arc and the villain cast ;p) and it just seemed incredibly fitting for this. Cookies for you if you got the reference!
> 
> If you enjoyed the fic, please please do leave a comment below detailing what you liked about it (the small details make my day!) Emotional support and validation is super important and appreciated and your comments mean the world. **_Please_ don’t just read and run! Leave a comment! Thank you!**  
>    
>  **Edit:** Since I've gotten a number of (mostly rude) comments about this, Coran calls the Paladins by their numbers because those are his names for them. This is **his** perspective. Allura and Lance get names as they are closer to Coran. The fact that some of you feel that is the only thing to comment on over a nearly 11k fic, and rudely and meanly at that (the worst of you have been deleted, I don't need that sort of negativity and rudeness here), is so sad and disappointing. If you have nothing nice to say don't bother saying anything at all. And honestly, don't bother reading my fics at all either. Clearly the meaning and story don't mean much to you. Neither apparently does the author, who posted this **for free, for you** and did not ask or want anything other than to know what you **enjoyed** about the fic. Given your answer, clearly, that would be nothing. And therefore you should have had nothing to say.


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